Nonconscious Music Thievers
I live in my head and rarely get out—a cerebral hermit with a devil inside. […] Yes, I have friends, some, and I’m still married. The Devil Inside? That’s another set of thoughts. What I hope to do here is shift perspective on how you value music—my protest against the sticky fingered and why the real hepcats have at least a large wall in purchased copyrighted art. So we start within the In of the High-End and call-out the high placed, openly self-harming, non-conscience music vandals and thievers. Distressfully, many of these Shakers within Hi-Fi don’t even know what it is that they don’t know.
Spanning twenty-five years now, and the globe, how is it that I have never seen royalty compensation. I’m hip, and have a hundred or so hi-fi shows under my belt and have yet to see the music creators used to hawk hardware compensated. Most that have seen me DJ, or one of the Zu Crew, know we do our level best to credit the originators, performers and labels; because it’s the right thing to do as there is never royalties being paid to performance rights management/organization (PRO) like ASCAP/BMI/SESAC or any other copyright collective by an event promotor. Sure, the hi-fi record labels in attendance get some traffic and maybe a sell or two, but it’s their business: Blue Coast Records, Reference Recordings, Chesky Records, MA Recordings, Waterlily, Mo-Fi, TimeSuck [Harvey’s label)… when a label is in attendance it’s clearly promotion, and they get a shade of respect, a thank you, maybe a beer from us hardware slingers. Pathetic isn’t it? No. Contemptible.
Why aren’t the local PRO reps forcing the hand of hi-fi shows makers? To perturb, here’s a guess, local PRO reps in Munich, Denver, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, London, DC… couldn’t give two-shits about hi-fi shows. Our collective of anarchists hardly matter, yet your local bar, hip retailer or performance arts venue pays between five and twenty grand a year on copyright royalty fees. Don’t believe me, poke around ASCAP, or ask your local dive bar how it feels to get sued for copyright infringement and how much they payout as part of operational expense, as it should be. If you play other’s original work in public or private for money or its equivalent, those originators/owners must be compensated. Don’t and Death will follow, both the art you fail to feed and death to the hope you have for profound appreciation of the thing you profess to love.
Wait, there was one show that had a crack at doing the right thing, but in the worst way. [runs downstairs to dig up album…] The NOT FOR SALE CD Specially Produced For The 3rd International High End Audio Show, Hong Kong 1994. Distributed and under penalty and censure the show required everyone play the same bloody compilation. The same [1, 2, 3,…] eleven tracks, all sponsored content from Wilson Audiophile Definition Recordings and Vital Music. Luckily, surprisingly, nobody blew their brains out, though it was considered by discouragingly few. Let that give you a sense of the deeper problem. Which reminds me of this great Julian Cope song, no, whole album, Autogeddon. A conflation of, Don’t Call Me Mark Chapman chased with Ain’t But The One Way plays in my head:
All night Barry Manilow, loud over the speaker system
Just trying to drive the fucker out…
A waste of time—a man committed a mind resolved
All night Barry Manilow, Mandy… Copacabana
Just trying to drive the fucker out…
Suicide or Vigilante
(To up the ante)
Which is my way?
Ain't but the One Way
Ain't but the One Way
Ain't but the One Way
(gunshot, groan)
To be free
I love biting, open to interpretation lyrics. So assuming you’re like me [can’t help it] I looked around for lyrics for Don’t Call Me Mark Chapman and what exists on such sites isn’t copied right. And why should it be, who’s copyright are these lyrics, Cope’s? That they are out in the -w-w-webs copied wrong… maybe that’s the workaround to copyright law, because most posted lyrics are wrong. But here I am, a man committed a mind resolved, to post copyrighted material, and will I do it again, ‘til she’s dead? This post after all will draw traffic, makes my shit smell good, and door swings equate to sales. Mr. JC, 'When I first started wearing it, a couple of friends said, "why are you wearing that? People will think you're gay." Well, if you're worried that I would be worried, we're going through a pretty dodgy time. In that case, I'll wear it because I want people to think I'm gay.' would have every right to shout, DRUDION, R-E-C-I-P-R-O-C-A-T-E ! But possibly, I might get a thanks for the press, another workaround….
Don’t Call Me Mark Chapman Julian Cope
No shit, Sherlock
The gun is loaded and primed
No shit, Sherlock
I've had enough of your lies
I spent enough time
Without making a blunder
And I'll do it again 'till she dies
No shit, Sherlock
It's all going off in his hands
A deadly assassin
What will his money buy now?
Don't call me Mark Chapman
'Cause they deserve each other
And I'll do it again 'till she dies
And I'll do it again 'till she dies
All night, Barry Manilow, loud over the speaker system
Just trying to drive the fucker out…
A waste of time—a man committed a mind resolved
All night, Barry Manilow—Mandy… Copacabana
Just trying to drive the fucker out…
And as night does turn to day
And the sun does rise and will every morning
So this morning does this man know
That he must leave this ‘fested ratmosphere
He does not look back a the two bodies
Now, there is grace where before there was only malignant anger
And there is dignity in his new up-right stride
And with longing in his Longitude
And with attitude in his Latitude
The once little man leaves the chrome condo carbuncle and faces up to the arresting officer
Does not swerve in his arrival though 130 police automatics point directly at his head
And with a tacky sense of humor
But with a true sense of the moment, he says,
"Don't call me Mark Chapman 'cause ‘ey deserve each other
Don't call me Sirhan Sirhan 'cause ‘ey ain’t Jullan Jullan
And I'll do it again
And I’ll do it again
'Till she dies
Adam Decaria and Christian-B DJing an A-list party at the W Hotel - Beverly Hills. © Sean Casey